Untitled
by FLXGHTLESSWXNGS
Summary: Post 3B AU where Scott's humanity is actually acknowledged. Yes, he's OOC here; pain does that.
1. Robot

Scott drew the curtain. Dust motes hovered in the air, illuminated by rays of light. Scott closed his eyes as dawn broke through the window, and let it soak into his skin. He stood this way for a moment before heading downstairs. The kitchen floor was cool beneath his feet. A note was stuck on the fridge, scrawled in her familiar messy handwriting:

_Working late. Take day off school, go out if you want. There's $50 on the counter. All my love, _  
_Mom xxx _

Scott sighed into his coffee. Everyone had been overly affectionate with him lately. They handled him like china, as though he would shatter into a million pieces if they didn't coddle him. He gulped the scalding coffee down, ignoring the searing pain that snaked along with it. He could already feel the burns on his tongue healing as he dropped the mug in the sink. He was anything but breakable. His grades, however, were another story entirely, and his mom was literally broke. Shopping was the last thing Scott would dare to dream of, so he slung a backpack over one shoulder and headed towards the door.

Stiles had been stuffing a copy of Othello into his bag when his friend's locker swung open.  
"Scott, what are you doing here?"  
"I'm a student here, Stiles. Its not like I'm doing a Derek."  
Stiles smirked proudly at his friends Stiles-style comment, but the grin faded fast as a memory surfaced. He recalled a conversation he's had with a therapist as a child, shortly after his mom's death. He'd sat on the old brown couch in her office, clutching his favourite red car in his hands.  
_"Everyone keeps crying but I don't feel sad. I want to play racing like I played it before, like normal again."_  
Stiles had looked up at the lady, wide-eyed, pleading for reassurance.  
_"Am I bad?"_  
The therapist shook her head.  
_"Stiles, your mind is protecting itself by shutting out sad feelings, so they don't hurt you."_  
_"Like when my racing car stops running when it gets too hot?"_  
The lady laughed.  
_"Yes, Stiles. Exactly like your car."_  
Stiles thought about that for a bit before answering with a frown. _"Mom always used to fix it."_

Now Scott was the one running like a machine. He was a robot, and "it wasn't your fault", seemed to be all he was programmed to say. It was always in the same monotonous voice. He used that voice all the time now, as though every inflection in his speech had died along with _her_. Scott skirted around Allison's name, avoided its painful taste. And though those words were just as flat as any other that left his mouth, Stiles knew Scott fully believed in them. Because Scott McCall liked to think there was good in everyone, and that naivety, that innocence slashed Stiles' core. It punctured an artery, the guilt pooled out like blood. Blood should have stained his shirt after he played his final card: the Divine Move. The misnomer would have saved Scott his repressed pain. Because Stiles (Dark Spirit/Void/Nogitsune/Whatever-Label-Scott-Tried-To-Sugar-Coat-The-Shitty-Truth-With) murdered Allison, and he was far closer to the demonic than divine. The bell sounded, students hurried down the hallway. Stiles snapped out of his reverie and turned his attention back to Scott. This was not about him. It had been about him for the past fortnight. For the past ever. No, it was Scott who mattered.

"I thought we said you'd take a day off, dude?"  
The last thing Scott needed to deal with right now was school.  
"_You_ said." The only thing he wanted to deal with right now was school. Yet he'd been in the place not five minutes, and was already sick of Stiles' guilt-ridden gaze.  
"Scott, wait!" Stiles yelled as his friend shut his locker and walked away. Stiles elbowed people out of his way as he followed Scott down the hallway. Scott picked up the pace. He really wasn't in the mood to listen to Stiles apologise. Everyone was too fucking sorry these days. They were all so very full of remorse that they probably didn't need his own pity for their many well-meaning, but bullshit, attempts to help. "Reach out" as Kira called it. She was the only one who had kept her distance from Scott, and he appreciated that. Everyone else suffocated him with their concern, but Kira was a breath of fresh air, never settling for too long, unlike Stiles who constantly breathed down his neck.

Literally.

Stiles gasped for air as he caught up to Scott inside the classroom. It was unnaturally quiet. Students were crowded around a desk, staring at it intently. Lydia backed away from the it, arms wrapped around herself, shivering as if she were cold. But she wasn't, she was burning up. Her cheeks were flushed burgundy as she backed away from her best friend's desk. It was cluttered with flowers and cards.

"What the fuck is this?"  
Miss Brown, who had been arranging the display, turned around.  
"Today we're making cards."  
"I see that. But this isn't kindergarten craft class, this is _her_ desk."  
"Was her desk. Past ten-."  
Miss Brown choked on rest of her generic grammar correction at the sheer rage on the student's face. Lydia shuffled uncomfortably for a while before stepping forward to calm her friend.  
"Scott, we thought-"  
"No you didn't think," Scott stated flatly, "this is her desk, Lydia."  
Stiles placed a hand on Scott's shoulder. He shrugged it off.  
"I know," Lydia's voice cracked, "Scott I know. But-"  
"Shut up Lydia, just shut up."  
The room filled with whispers. Stiles eyed his friend anxiously while Lydia suddenly became intrigued by the ground. After all, she thought, studying the cheap flooring was more beneficial to Scott than her talking. How did she expect to calm Scott when she couldn't stop her own legs from shaking? Why did she expect Scott to calm down? She was having enough trouble keeping it together without her best friend. But Scott... That was different. Different to how it hurt her when the slightest possibility of love had been incinerated along with Aiden's ashes. Different, even, to sensing Allison's death; Allison whom she'd truly loved. Because Scott hadn't only loved her-he'd been_ in love_ with her.

Lydia knew from experience (with a cold-blooded creature, no less) that that love didn't just die along with a loved one.


	2. Surface Wound

The class was full of wide eyes. They were all staring at him; staring and giving their neighbours knowing looks. But they didn't know. Whispered words of pity slowly built into an all out discussion.  
_"Were they a thing?"_  
_"Before she did_ the thing_with that Isaac kid."_  
_"No."_  
_"Yes."_  
_"But they were still so close."_  
_"I heard he forgave her and wanted her back."_  
_"He'll never get that now, poor thing."_  
_"Its so sad."_

They were talking like he wasn't even there. He wanted so badly to tear their chattering tongues out. Their voices grated against his senses, insignificant annoyances like white from a radio stuck between stations. All he wanted to do was turn it off. He backed out of the door, fists clenched almost tight enough to draw blood. It was all he could do not to take a swing at Greenburg's gossip the kids sitting on desks around him in a story time circle. He was literally seeing red now, flecks of crimson flickering in his periphery. His legs were moving beneath him, pounding against the floor so hard the soles of his worn shoes came loose. He didn't know where he was going, he just had to keep going. To run.

"Scott," Stiles said gently, "we're worried about you."  
He and Lydia had found the wolf huddled in a corner of the locker room, shivering and covered in sweat. He didn't notice them for several minutes, lost too deep in his own thoughts. But as soon as he became aware of their presence he stilled, turned stone cold.  
"Stiles I had one meltdown about a desk."  
"You know it was more than that."  
"No, what I know is that you were on suicide watch last weekend, and _you_-" Scott turned to Lydia "-are a nervous wreck. I'm just pissed about a polished plank of wood, its the least of your worries."  
The room was silent for a several moments before Lydia spoke in an even, clinical voice. "Surface wounds draw little blood, because of this nerves are exposed to irritants."  
"What? Lydia, what does that even..." Stiles shook his head, as if to clear it of confusion, "how does this help any...what?" A month ago Scott would have found it funny. Might have even laughed at the random scientific statement. But right now he couldn't care less.  
"I'm a werewolf, Lydia. Paper cuts are kinda the least of my worries."  
"Exactly. Shallow cuts sting more than deep wounds, but they're also easier to treat." Scott knew she was no longer concerned with the perils of paper cuts. "If I wanted analogies, I'd be in class."  
Stiles threw his hands up in the air as if slicing through the tension. "Um, hello-"  
"Try goodbye."  
"-I do the sarcasm around here."  
"Whatever." Scott stood up and brushed his jeans off. "I'm going anyway."


End file.
